take me under with you
by Old Emerald Eye
Summary: Omegas are creation, are lifegivers, and Omegas are death to those they set themselves against. Wanheda who is also an Omega unbound to any mortal ties is the threat of power uncaring and unchecked - destruction for all the clans should she lose herself in her heat.
1. Beginings

**Title:** take me under with you

**Summary:** Omegas are creation, are lifegivers, and Omegas are death to those they set themselves against. Wanheda who is also an Omega unbound to any mortal ties is the threat of power uncaring and unchecked - destruction for all the clans should she lose herself in her heat.

* * *

_In which I play some more with the ABO trope. Fair warning, this started out as a dream so it's not very plotty. Or plotted._

* * *

Niylah notices the first traces of heat in her scent when she's brought a pair of rabbits to trade for furs and red berry dye. She tempts Clarke into the shelter of her sleeping chamber, gives her tea to delay the onset, and another to make her sleep. Clarke doesn't seem to notice the effects of either, not when offered the use of Niylah's bed after months of sleeping up trees or in a damp cave.

When Wanheda is safely asleep, Niylah secures her station against the attention of common thieves, saddles the horse and sets off for Polis with her cargo clutched before her at full speed.

In Polis, the choosing ceremony has begun.

The largest room in the tower has been subdivided into fourteen sections with leather and fur serving as the curtains. Directly opposite the entrance to the chamber, Heda's throne sits empty and shadowed in the gloom.

In each of the twelve sections, silent alphas from the clans and the strongest of the Betas sit, stand and crouch, each chosen according to the custom of their clan. All of them, waiting in their own contained areas.

Clarke is submerged, drifting deep in the swelling tide of her heat as she is prepared by a team of betas. Nyko, the lone omega, keeps her calm by his presence, away from the doors and from giving into her instincts just yet.

He holds her away from that final drop, slowing her descent just a little more. She hasn't hit her mating drive yet, will not - must not - do so this cycle, but two betas prepare her thighs with artificial slick, even as the rest paint the rest of her body with scent gels, telling the story of Wanheda.

The red scent markings of her kills along her back is like running into a wall, so many and so potent that she bleeds with them, are offset by the calming blue swirls of her healings across and along her arms. The strength of her leadership is painted on her face, and the gently clinking beads in her hair are as much a product of the earth and the work of craftspeople as they are the stars she was born from.

Despite the multitude of artificial scents that cover her, the steadily strengthening sweetness of her omega shines through.

Both in a daze and in perfect clarity, she makes her way through the rooms, unobtrusively shadowed by Nyko. The area is full, of people and candles and gently swaying drapery, but their quite stillness makes them half unreal and unthreatening. She drifts, exploring each section as it emerges before her. One has infants, asleep in carrying baskets laid in a row by the furs furthest from the clustered throng that. One rouses under her investigation and she moves on

Only two stand out. In the Trikru section, there is a beta that scents well to her, and does not flinch at her cloud of death as she comes close, and in the Azgada, next to the throne Roan is lounging on, another interesting individual. Strong, confident, and doesn't intentionally raise her hackles as the prince does for his own amusement. She finds the presence is comforting, like the warmth of a fur against the chill from the open window.

After completing the circuit after an age and in no time at all, she emerges into the central area to stand before a familiar throne. She recognizes it, with a dull unidentifiable emotion at seeing it empty. Lost in her contemplation, she is heedless of her shadow's actions and the way curtains are partially parted in response. It takes the soft murmur of senseless noise, muffled but widespread across the room to bring her attention back from half glimpsed memories.

Even as the room quietens into an expectant hush, four emerge from their transient caves into her clearing in this forest of scents and shadows.

Nyko is a known quality, and makes no effort to draw her attention to himself. He settles into the background, and she instinctively knows he is safety, that his presence allows her attention to stray to the others without worry.

They are three - the warm stranger, the one she knows but cannot name, and another, lighter clothed – of the Plains or Shadow Leaf clans - spread into an arc facing her, a step distant but close enough to touch. Waiting.

Waiting for her.

She is given the opportunity to investigate them further, and she does. They have not changed noticeably from her first meeting of them, perhaps slightly sharper now that they are no longer hidden by the crowd. She allows their scenting of her in return, until the male tastes a strip of her throat, and nips in at the skin under her jaw.

_His teeth close, and pull on something that is deeper in her than blood. She does not gift it, and he cannot contain it. He is drowned, dragged under - _

Clarke pulls back at the sensation – and her lethargy is disappearing now, though her limbs are still heavy she burns with restless energy, spoiling for something she doesn't know how to name – and snaps at him, teeth catching at the air before his face.

_She bites, deep in his throat, deeper than blood or bone – and even that does not satisfy, for her teeth are sharp, and she -_

The pack she has chosen close ranks on him, and his retreat is total before Nykos growl. Alphas may kill, but an Omega roused to violence destroys until there is nothing left to rage against. She feels the tugging at her chest settle at their actions, soothed.

More words sing through the air as he disappears from her world and she resumes the important task of taking in the scent of the alphas she has chosen for the pack – strong, trustworthy, good guardians of her nest, strong defenders for her den.

Nyko leaves the three of them to their own devices and makes his way out through the large doors.

They regard each other warily, as high ranked on opposing sides do when suddenly given a common interest, but Wanheda is their priority now, more so than the entire grouping of clans, and they have no doubt that she'd turn her teeth on them too if they were to fight.

All that remains of the procedure is Heda officially bringing the ceremony to a close, allowing the unsuccessful to leave and they can focus of finding an acceptable nest to finish out the heat. For now, neck nuzzling, and allowing the mingling of their scents with their omega.

Heda arrives, doors opening before her with a flourish that spreads her coat like wings. Anya barely refrains from rolling her eyes, is sufficiently distracted by her current proximity to Wanheda's scent gland that Heda's dignity is not unduly threatened.

The sudden influx of fresh air catches Clarke's attention. Even as curtains are being pulled back to open the space into a single large area, she takes small unhurried steps towards her, scenting the air.

Lexa's eyes widen at her approach. She doesn't step back – can't, is not able to show weakness, not in front of the gathered representative of the clans. Anya and Eco, without their buffer, find themselves far too close to each other and step apart, then turn to watch as Clarke, entirely without thought to political ramification, steps up and sticks her head between shoulder and neck of the ruler of the coalition. Lexa is still as a startled deer, back ramrod straight and tenser than the string of a warbow.

Protestations immediately break out around them. Clarke recognizes Wanheda among the shouted words, and not much else, but there is anger, and Lexa steps away from her. The other alphas of the pack are by her side, but she is never one to back away from aggression, so she steps in front of all of them and snarls at the loudest protesters until they retreat before her fury.

She is Wanheda, and she is Omega, and she will choose her mates as _she_ sees fit.


	2. Aftermath, Part One

**Title:** take me under with you

**Summary:** Omegas are creation, are lifegivers, and Omegas are death to those they set themselves against. Wanheda who is also an Omega unbound to any mortal ties is the threat of power uncaring and unchecked - destruction for all the clans should she lose herself in her heat.

**Chapter Title:** Aftermath, Part One

* * *

_Raz GoA, I know your pain. That's pretty much the exact feeling I had while I was writing it. I had been planning (aka had three vague sentances) on continuing this, and then you and a couple of reviewers over on Ao3 tipped me over the edge and kicked this up on the list of priorities. Behold, a new chapter. And there's another on the way, miracle of miracles._

* * *

Lexa

* * *

Klark is all omega as she lies sleeping in the sprawl of bed, soft and content and unspeakably powerful. The scent of her brings an added hush to the quiet room. That, and the smeared remnants of the ceremonial markings, that cover skin and fur cloy the air until it is impossible not to be aware that this room is an omega's nest. Leksa's omega's nest. Sprawling soft and serene, her limbs loose, and clothing drawn about her waist, every inch of her is so welcoming that it is like wrestling a pauna to finish buckling her coat and face the world outside this new nest.

But it is an alpha's duty to protect the nest from intrusion like that which gathers beyond the doors. And although that is only one small part of Leksa's identity, it is most also the most important one, for now. This oasis of peace is only a limited window of a life she should, by all rights, never have had the chance to have. More than that, she is Heda, so she leaves her Fos in the midst of the tangled nest - Onya is not sleeping at all as deeply as she seems, and for all their omega had allowed her to be gentle there is a blade within her reach or Leksa is Maunon born and bred - to keep watch while she sees to those who would not wait.

Even the Azgeda alpha serving as Klark's bedroll - the actual item is lost somewhere in the disarray the four bond-drunk pack-mates had left of the bed in their quest to turn it into an acceptable nesting spot - seems softer, less (and she acknowledges that it is Leksa, not Heda who thinks this) like she is carved out of the ice of her homeland. More like she is a person, someone she could share Klark with.

Not that Klark - or Wanheda - is hers to share. She should not be hers at all. To be Heda is to stand alone. The lingering effects of the bonding, and sheer disbelief of her new station - alpha to an omega, no longer alpha of alphas alone - grounds her feet, keeps her staring long after she should be out facing the tribes queries. Facing Titus, which is a much larger hurdle. Because Wanheda chose her. Chose _Leksa_.

If his opposition to Kostia - a beta, unthreatening and unquestionably loyal to Trikru - was unyielding, how much more will her oldest advisor rage against the claim of another spirit, and one bound to an outsider?

And at the same time as she prepares to fight, Leksa knows that no matter her heart's desires, she cannot be fully Klark's, nor Wanheda's. Heda and Wanheda are equal spirits, if different. Their joining was a weakness of their hosts, nothing more. The bond will last only their short lifetimes and disappear once more.

But Leksa is tired of merely surviving. So she sets her face to the mask of Heda and turns to the door. She has a set number of moments to live life to the fullest in. She will not allow pointless squabbling to take more than is absolutely necessary. The good of the Coalition is the good of the kru, and the good of the kru is the strength of the packs within it.

And it is not within Leksa to fail.

* * *

Clarke

* * *

When Clarke returns to herself, she is so comfortable she does not want to leave the dream she is forgetting. The bed beneath her is soft and warm and she is heavy with the pleasant softness of a good rest after hard work. Too content for any worries to permeate her mental fog, she turns and nuzzles her way into a softly breathing pillow that lifts and lies across her shoulder.

It feels like nothing she has ever actually felt. Like old films of lazy sunlit afternoons spent napping in cool vineyards.

Safe, warm and well rested, she luxuriates in the soft stroking of her hair, happily pressing up into the attention. The tug as fingers catch on a knot catches her right on the edge of drifting off, and she pulls away with a grumble, rolling on top of ... she blinks. This is not Niylah. The hair and eyes smiling up at her from inches away are darker, more solid than Niylah's fine features. Not-Niylah's arm, she realises, has slipped with the movement from her shoulder down to her lower back. She blinks at her again, strangely calm despite everything that should send her scrambling out of the nearest exit. That's what she's been doing these last few months; running and hiding. She knows it, but it seems distant somehow. As if it no longer applies.

Confused, she turns to look at the source of her movement and frowns to see Anya looking back at her. They had parted on better terms than she had with Lexa, Anya leaving to Polis for healing while she moved against the Mountain. They are not much beyond attempting to kill each other, but Clarke is still oddly free from any trace of worry at the sight of her. Her hand is still outstretched, the ends of Clarke's hair trailing through her fingers. It is more blonde than red now, the mixture turning an oddly bright pink. She had needed that new dye, and Niylah was always so helpful getting it in –

She considers that, turning her thoughts slowly like a smooth pebble. She had been with Niylah, and now she is here. The space between those two points is a mystery. It's not that she feels nothing, and she isn't numb, just … calm. Calm and confused and she still feels strangely content, despite the situation. The parts of the situation that aren't her hair being petted. Clarke likes that. It's nice and soothing and she isn't even too sick to enjoy it properly. She'd be purring if she knew how to.

Mostly, Clarke is curious why she is in bed with them.

It's like amnesia trope from Love in the City of Stars, one of the Ark's most popular novels. Wells had snuck the copy from the library, and they'd spent hours hiding under thin blankets in each other's beds giggling over it. This feels like that. Like there's a part of her that knows what's going on, even if she doesn't right now.

Still, she should probably find out. She clears her throat, suddenly dry mouthed. "What's … where …?"

A hand lifts away from her skin, disturbing the furs - soft and feathery, making her shiver from sheer hedonism - and reminding her of its existence, and of her position on top of Not-Niylah.

"Heya, Wanheda." Clarke braces up on her arms - she really is way too close to someone she's still calling Not-Niylah - and looks down at her. "Who are you?"


	3. Aftermath, Part Two

**Title:** take me under with you

**Chapter Title:** Aftermath, Part Two

Actually mostly precedes the previous chapter, but it is what it is.

* * *

_Thanks for all the lovely reviews! Unfortunately, I have a notoriously bad update schedule, in that I generally write and upload as the muse strikes. And I have a ridiculous amount of WIPs. But feel free to drop in a review with anything you'd like to see, and it may make its way in. (Or in a different fic entirely. The muses are fickle, if fruitful, things.)_

* * *

Echo

* * *

Ekko is not expecting to be chosen. Not for the ceremony, and certainly not by Wanheda. She knows that it is important that some are - Wanheda is a powerful spirit, whether free or bound to a gona's form. Stories of untethered gona chosen are as much part of blizzard tales as those of spirits themselves. Destruction in their wake, following footsteps like scavenging birds. Not all had set their sights on the Mounin.

And now they are faced with Wanheda who is an Omega incarnate. She had set her eyes on the Mounin, and the Mounin fell before her. Which is as much a curse as a blessing, as any of the clans could tell. The Mounin has fallen, and they are the only remaining targets when her ire is next raised.

Better - they make their own connections to their pack. There are none of the issues that Alphas or Betas have with finding acceptance within their locality. And worse, because Omega feel more deeply. Such a spirit, under guidance of unrestrained emotion, free to act on nothing but a heat addled mind ... the only possible outcome is disaster.

This is known. And so the Coalition waits.

It has been months since Wanheda was last seen. Polis has hosted delegations from each of the clans - official groupings and lone wanderers alike - during that time. The sporting they take to for distraction grows almost dull with repetition. For her part, Ekko sees no use in going beyond maintaining her skill. She never knows when it will have to be called upon. But Polis is far too crowded - too accessible - for her to feel comfortable flaunting her abilities. She finds a tavern, located in the area of lower city frequented by farmers and hunters both, and hides herself in their stories.

The entire city bursts into fresh excitement when the proclamation from tower is read at every gate and market.

Azgeda had not put on games in Polis like other kru. Roan had picked their share of the offering on merit, on victories on the field and plains of icy north. That dos not stop the gona from competing, even when they have to make their own competitions.

Ekko does not take part in the spear throwing, nor the dagger trials nor even the great run around Polis's true stone walls. Roan selects her to stand with him regardless.

Ekko remains unsure why she is here.

She remains in Polis because, even after months, she has barely recovered from her captivity. Azgeda is no place for the weak, and the rest of her unit were taken before her. Dragged away while she was helpless. So she remains, a ghost of herself. Living off Heda's bread. Drinking ale and listening to petty tales of small merchants and farmers.

She has no doubt her selection is purely for his own amusement - even with the customary silence of the wait. Neither of them put much thought toward joining the new pack. Much as Nia her Qwin would enjoy the leverage the connection to Wanheda would impart. They have their duties, and part of hers is keeping Roan alive. Or so it was, before her unit fell to the Ripas. Still, she knows him of old, and badgers a new fur wrap from his wardrobe for putting up with the annoyance. He complies with his usual sardonic cheer, and relaces her boots besides.

Has her standing right beside him, the nomonjoka.

For all her shield of annoyance, Ekko is a mixture of bored and terrified. Not an unusual combination - she is used to long waits before violence. This is not violence. This is their chance to avoid catastrophe greater than even the Mounin could hope to wreck.

(If this ceremony fails, if none are judged worthy … then there will be violence, of a sort. But Ekko will not be involved, save in the aftermath. She is weak still, thinner than she should be. Wears furs even in the warmth of Polis. But she will mourn for the one who saved her from the cages.)

The room is stifled by too many scents, even restrained and trapped by the close press of hangings. Window at their back is flung wide. It cools their small division, almost making the temperature comfortable, but it doesn't help. The air is heavy.

A new depth of silence settles across them as Wanheda enters the divided hall. Even the sound of breathing. Even the aimless grow still, watching for signs of her passage towards them.

The curtains remain closed - they are placed more than halfway to the cycles completion - but even with cool freshness of air from open window at their backs, her scent seeps through. Beside them Pleinkru have crushed mint, as sharp as new snow. It is drowned out, sure as summer growth yields to winter frost.

First is blood, new death and old. Their enclosure seems a true cave now, a small shelter where they huddle and wait to hear movement of the predator stalking outside. Ekko's heart begins to pound a war rhythm. Her breathing, at least, she can control. Whatever tells she makes with her scent are masked by the flood.

It is not until Wanheda steps into Azgeda territory that she notes the sharpness of the _life_ that winds its way up her arms, or the cool ice that surrounds her eyes, or the coil of sweet enticement and slick that catches in her gut. This is Wanheda, embodied and tall, but this is also_ Omega_, Omega made flesh and standing before Ekko.

Her stare is noticed by none but Roan, and his amusement brings a flash of teeth and dismissle as Wanheda turns her attention to Ekko for a long, endless moment - seconds, hours, she cannot tell, has no care to - and then to the furs that they have covered the ground with, before drifting towards the window. A ripple of movement follows her - perhaps the spirit desires freedom rather than appeasement, but she turns - and onwards, away from them.

It takes the opening of the drapes for her to remember to breathe, and then, with Roan's hand at her back, she is stepping forward.

* * *

Anya

* * *

The air is still. Still and heavy, and Onya keeps her breathing as slow and steady as the distant brush of air from an open window. She had fought for this place she stands in, fought and will not falter now.

And she knows that she has an advantage over all of the other contenders, but that is a blade with both edges sharpened.

She had met with Klark before she became Wanheda. That made the first appraisal for Onya's fellows a second, more considering look at her. Their parting had been amicable, for all the strife before it. Were it Klark she was to impress, Onya would not rate her chances poorly. But it is not Klark. Or at least, not Klark alone.

It is Wanheda they are presented before to judge their worthiness as hearth and provision, as pack, and she does not know how she will be measured.

Even in a normal ceremony, less fraught with implications, an Omega would not be punished for driving an unworthy applicant away. In whatever form that rejection may take.

Wanheda is that threat magnified. It takes a spirit to do more than kill a gona, but that is just what she faces this day.

And even if she is not so rebuffed, she is Beta. There is a current of opinion she has overheard, at noonmeal, in the markets, between the many gona and contests that have sprung up across Polis like mushrooms after rain, that as an Omega, Wanheda will take only the best for her own. And the best is not Beta. It is an attitude Onya had faced from many Alphas as she rose to General. It's resurgence is almost as much surprise as how affected she is.

The wait does not help. Onya is as unsure as ever she has been before battle when Wanheda finally steps through the heavy drape. Her worries faded away when she had been looked upon. The call of the Omega Spirit was unlike any force she has experienced. Like the heady pull of strong spirits without dizziness or harm. Bright sunlight through trees.

Now, as movement returns to the room, a trace of that uncertainty returns.

But she is not rejected. She is chosen, and is _pack_, and she swims with her pack into the sea of scents to make it their own.

* * *

She wakes at Leksa's stirring. The night and morning before seem a feverdream blur, but she has returned to her own mind. Even so, Onya feels a soft form of fond amusement at her dressing and delay. Should not leave - not before they have woken together, and broken fast - but duty is a part of her as much as being Alpha to their new pack.

Onya has the harder task. Truly, a Beta's work is never complete. Not when there are Alphas around to add to it.

Wanheda slumbers still. Her form is golden in the sun. When she wakes, Onya will have Klark to deal with. She will have to make an introduction to Ekko - and she knows far less of the Azgeda Alpha then she would like - and give a explanation of her changed circumstances. Onya does not expect any of it to be easy. Klark has fire, and the Skaikru are horrifically ignorant is anything but their tek. How else could a trader have trapped Klark so easily in clear sign of her heat? Such an act is almost inconceivable.

That spark may well burn the city down around their ears without aid from the spirits.

Long term arrangements can wait until their wolves settle. But they will have to be addressed. Heda is no longer considered Trikru, although they pay her alligence by long custom. Leksa's situation is completely novel. Onya cannot hope to see what the future brings there. Titus will know, and fret. She feels a dim amused pity for her Sekkon.

No, Leksa is not Trinkru, but Onya is. And Ekko has the interest of Azegeda at heart. And Klark, for her own part, is still Klark kom Skaikru. Even if they have not laid eyes on her since she and Wanheda became one, she still gives them her loyalty. A pack pulled three ways is unheard of. Even those born of alliances are between two of the tribes at most. Feels a frown pulling her face to its usual mask, and pushes the thought away. Politics, however pressing, can wait until after the pack emerges from this nest. Now is no time for worries.

Resettles, and begins working tangles out of her Omega's hair. For now, her task is only to work out the human side of their relationships. She and Leksa will have no issue - they have already spent years beside each other, as well used to giving each other orders as taking them - but Klark and Ekko are unknown qualities. Klark had made some impression on Leksa - but that had been after Onya had returned to Polis and its healers. And Leksa must have made some good impression on the Omega in turn, or she would not have been claimed even as the ceremony drew to a close. But what that is, and what set the girl to disappear for months after her victory, is a mystery.

Like Ekko. Ekko does not seem like any great threat, in her sleep and pinned by Klark besides. But she is perplexing. A survivor of the Mounin, that Onya knows. Brought back to Polis with others too weak to return to their clan's territories, or with nothing to return to. Seeing her emerge for the claiming was a surprise - the Alpha had not competed in any event that Onya had heard of. Which means she has connections, and the will to use them. Her purpose in doing so is uncertain.

But Onya _will_ discover it.


End file.
